On Friday night, I headed to Luna Park to catch a highly-anticipated (by me) gig at the Big Top.
First up was Ash Grunwald, who I’ve been listening to lately but have never known much about. I was surprised by the fact that Grunwald is a one-man show. He does the guitars and vocals and operates a snare, kick drum and toms using his feet. Great plan, in theory, but if you break a string and get flustered (and admit that to your audience), you’ve got no one to hold things while you get your shit together. While Ash rocks at what he does, his feet were half a second behind the rest of him. Get a drummer, son.
Next we were treated to a brilliant set by UK boys Gomez. You’d be hard-pressed to find a nerdier looking bunch of guys, but fuck me, they put on a good show. Frequently swapping instruments between songs (something that never fails to impress me) and playing a nice blend of old stuff versus new stuff kept the punters pleased. My two favourite songs, Rhythm & Blues Alibi, and We Haven’t Turned Around were both included, so this Music Blogger went home a very happy vegemite.
But before that I still had the pleasure of hearing a cracking set from the Black Keys. Once again, a much smaller band than I’d expected, but these two Yanks create a massive live sound. Crunchy riffs, distorted vocals and dirty drum beats really hit the spot at that point of the night and my blood alcohol level. However, the venue began to let me down. The speaker in front of me popped every time the drummer hit the kick drum. The lights were shit. The guy behind me was rubbing my arm in what I assume was some kind of bogan-esque pre-mating ritual. I took some snaps, said goodbye, and began the long journey home.